


The darkness drops again

by goldfinchex



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I shamelessly butcher canon and Norse myths to fit my purpose, Post-Canon, Post-Ragnarok, Time Travel, canon compliant if you squint, tagging as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfinchex/pseuds/goldfinchex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a time and place for the end of the world, and Loki thinks that he does not want it to come just yet, not by his own hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The darkness drops again

Fire. Fire burns all over Asgard. Fire licks the golden spirals of Gladsheim – home. Fire dies on the bodies of the dead, sent to Valhalla.

What was Valhalla when Ragnorok has come? The halls of Valhalla have been emptied once to fight with Surtr's spirits. Brave and noble warriors fall still, but will they still feast and drink and a hall devoid of the other glorious dead? 

***

There is a woman, a goddess, in her armour. She holds a glaive. Her hair is matted with blood and ashes, her skin is bloodied: she is a gruesome sight to behold, the red staining her face. She looks almost savage in her fury, fury at the monsters that defiled their home. Her eyes too burn with flame. Fire always burns in two colours, and hers are ignited with rage and grief. Once, her armour was polished silver and sparkled in the sunlight. Now, if anyone could stop to ask her, she would snarl and say that it gleamed with the blood of Asgard's enemies—cretins that dared violate her home.

All around her is carnage. The bodies of her comrades, fellow warriors, lie on the ground, some still in death (a mercy), the others groaning in agony as the poison from the monsters' bites sear through their veins. Those alive beg for death, plead for Hel to take them to a land where they cannot hurt anymore. Lying on the ground like that is honourless, they know, a woman is still fighting in the endless battle, but they cannot summon the energy and willpower to pull themselves off the ground. A few of them may tell you that they are indeed rooted into the ground: the sorcerers bound them with the roots of towering trees, trees that have had their leaves robbed from their branches. 

It has been days since she watched her first friend fall in battle. Dearest Volstagg, struck down by spirits that wielded corporeal spears. She screamed when she saw his large form slump to the ground, the light leaving his eyes as he rasped his last breath.

 _No_ , she had thought, _that is not possible. It is not possible for one of the Warriors Three to be slain in battle..._

None could believe it when Volstagg got up from the ground, pulled the spear out of his bloodless chest, and dispatched rows of spirits. She did not realise that Volstagg's body was beside her until after she had detruncated a fire giant.

It was then that they knew what Valhalla was for. The worthy dead would indeed engage in spars after they have fallen – not against each other in sport, as most Aesir had believed, but against the legions of the dead and incorporeal that could kill those that lived, breathed, and bled.

She knows that she will never reach the halls of Valhalla even if she is to be cut down in battle. Everyone who dies beside her will be stuck in this eternal pandemonium. She does not want to know what happens to the spirits that are downed by Surtr's spirits. She only knows that she wants to rid the land of destruction. She is war, not chaos. She is war, and she will get what she wants. She will protect her home to the best of her ability and all its innocents within. She will restore order. She will fight for it.

She will not watch Yggdrasil engulfed by Nidhogg and fire.

***

There is a boy who stands within the walls of Gladsheim.

Well, he isn't exactly enclosed within four walls: he stands on the balcony, leaning as far out as he can in an attempt that grows less futile by the minute to catch a glimpse of the battle. He is shaking like a leaf in the wind. He wants to see his mother so badly, to know that she is alive. This desire wars inside him. He does not want to see her, because if she is pushed back to the inner city of Gladsheim the entire realm will be no more. 

The wind blows hot against his face, and he thinks that it smells terrible. Asgard in springtime was usually filled the perfume of the court ladies,  the aroma of flowers, and the clean scent of Yggdrasil. Now, it stinks of something charred and burnt, something that did not burn well, and the stench of something rotten and foul. He does not want to know the source of this reek.

His aunt, the queen, calls for him to leave his place. "It is not safe _,"_ she says, "a stray arrow may reach you. They are getting closer."

Of course he knows that they are getting closer. He cannot shut the din out of his head. He is a child of war, and the dying screams of men echo in his head. Pandemonium. It is insanity outside the walls of the outer city. He closes his eyes. He thinks that he can taste the battle, taste the blood on his tongue. It is sour and bitter and altogether unpleasant and it makes him want to cry.

He steps down from his position and goes to his aunt's side. She puts her arm on his shoulder to lead him inside – to the illusion of safety.   

Fire . He has painted fire in his lessons with father, but campfires from a small pile of wood did not hold a candle to the flames that burned from the tops of all the forests of The Realm Eternal. He cannot erase the image of the firestorm.

He is a child of mischief. He knows all about illusions, and the safety will not last.  He knows that the coming of chaos will overturn the order of The Realm Eternal. He cannot forget that he has dreamt that the golden halls of Gladsheim will be gone forever. That everything he has always known will be gone.

***

There is a man who will tell you he is a god, or he may tell you that he is a monster, depending on the mood you catch him in. He may also tell you that he is chaos incarnate, the wildfire that races through Asgard, home of the Aesir (and certainly not him).

If you ever met him, you would see the spark in his eyes. A spark of madness. A glow of blue and not green. The hallmark of mind control, a game played on him by a _higher being_ , someone that has overpowered him long ago, who gained dominion over him as easily as little children could pick up their toy dolls.

If you were to ask him why he was at the helm of the fire ships, watching the realm that he grew up together with his brother slowly fade into ashes and nothingness, he will not be able to give you an answer. Although, he might first claim that all the Aesir had done him wrong, that the Aesir hated him so there was no shame in killing them anyway. Press on, and he won't find the answers to your inquisition. More precisely, he would just kill you instead of allowing you to harass him: no higher being wanted anyone to find the answers before they completed the implementation of their plans.   

From his vantage point, he watches the rain of spirits and the other of the 'higher being's paraphernalia' ravage the inner city. They have just arrived at the inner city, and he has to squash memories of days long past. Compunction would hinder his lack of scruples. He cannot afford that. His orders were to get to Gladsheim and kill everyone, raze everything to the ground.

If he were in his right state of mind, he would realise that the inner city was strangely quiet – but he was not.

He glides above the empty streets of the inner city, smiling the smile of a madman. His fist is clenched tightly over a spear, the same spear he had used many, many years ago to invade Midgard, a realm that had long destroyed itself. He delights in the whoosh of wind, ignores the clouds of black smoke just below him – smoke that obscures his view of the city.

The fire ship descends and he steps onto the ground, trying to brush the dust and grime that coats his armour the second he leaves the fire ship. Something pulls at his mind, that something is wrong, that the city his brother and he grew up in has always been golden, glorious, and beautiful, but that thought vanishes from his mind when there is a flicker of blue in his eyes.

He walks into Gladsheim – the only structure left standing, unmarred by fire. He turns around, orders the fire giants that Surtr took from Muspelheim to begin having their fun with Gladsheim. The fire giants laugh, flinging balls of fire at him, and he smirks back, immune to burns. Wildfire cannot burn. His only parting command at the giants did not interfere in his business with Heimdall or Thor, if they should see them. He hears Surtr laugh as he watches him from afar.

He walks up the stairs. Heimdall, predictably, seeks him out. He is sure that Heimdall meant it as an ambush, the way he steals out from behind the pillars as he tries to stab him. He wants to laugh so very badly: had the Aesir not always scorned trickery and anything less than announcing their presence to fight honourably?

He throws Heimdall off the stairs. It is easy, with the powers that have been granted to him. Heimdall crashes on the ground below. He waits until Heimdall gets up with a soft grunt, weary from the days of combat, worn down from the relentless skirmishes upon Asgard. It is almost dull, he thinks, to finish this fight. The gem on his spear glows, and he melds Heimdall to the gold where he stands. Heimdall's golden eyes are alight with rage at being bested by one of the simplest uses of the Seidr, but he is too tired to summon the strength to break free of his bonds. He deliberates for a second, two seconds, before he draws his knives. 

He continues his ascent through the palace. He is met time and again by the remaining palace guards, guards that first assault him in droves before their numbers dwindle out to a mere trickle. He senses their frustration before he brushes the ashes of the last guard off his armour, and he guesses he must be near what they are trying to protect.

He faces the arcades that lead to the throne room.

There is a woman who stands at the end of the corridor, in front of the entrance into the room he seeks to enter. She looks battered, her dark hair caked with dried blood and the dusty remains of Asgard and its inhabitants. He stares at her, nonplussed by the difference in her expression when she looks at him, a stark contrast from the sneers and jeers from the guards. On her face is something he does not recognise.

(He knows only anger now.)

Surtr's decree rings in his head. Kill _everyone_ , raze _everything_ to the ground.

He points his spear at her, taking strides towards her, daring her to come at him, wanting her to rid her face of that strange expression.

A heartbeat passed. Everything was silent for but a moment. Then she gives a broken yell as she charges him, holding a glaive that did not gleam in her hand. She has no other option but to kill him – the hold of the gems over his mind would always overpower everything he knew...

There is no clash of weapons. He does not need it. He simply raises his spear again, and blasts her backwards, sending her crashing through the golden door, relishing the deafening clang of metal against metal. He does not let her get up, not like he did Heimdall as he senses that she can drive him to his death. He leaps forward and plunges the sharp end of his spear into her.

A boy appears, stands in front of him, screaming. The boy's eyes stare back into his, verdant and green and full of terror, grief, and betrayal.

Loki stares back. Slowly, Loki looks down at the body of Sif on the ground; she bleeds, the red staining his shoes. Sif's eyes are full of something _he_ cannot place. Loki sees the sheen of tears.  Loki's gaze fixes on his hands, the pale white skin stained with the crimson of her blood.  Loki's spear clatters to the ground. Loki does not want to hold the weapon that has killed her— 

Loki howls. Loki does not want her dead. Loki knows who she is, who the boy is—

Loki screams again, not caring that Ullr is moving to tackle him to the ground—Ullr wild with grief and torn by the pain of having his world ripped apart by one he trusted—

There is one thing that Loki can do, blood, blood, Loki needs his own blood, he needs Ullr's blood—

There is a blinding flash of green.

Then, there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta. I'm writing a thing that I'm trying to plan out. Skeletons are skeletons, and I've got them stashed in a closet somewhere, so stick with me? Leave comments if you wish. Thanks for reading, and my rate of updating will depend on the school work I'd get for the next few terms. Hopefully, I don't drown.  
> Title inspired by this short excerpt from WB Yeats' The Second Coming: "The darkness drops again but now I know..."


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